Feather and Fang
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Everyone knows that magic users have magic dæmons. Creatures of myth and legend. Some appear normal but have hides in unnatural colours. It's a way to pick them out of a crowd, find them, even when they try to hide in plain sight.


Arthur knows that Berengaria is going to settle soon. He _feels_ it in him. She's been slow to change between forms for the past month, and there's a sort of drag when she does.

He's excited. He's already twelve years old, and unlike other children his age, he _wants_ his dæmon to settle. He wants Father to see that he isn't a boy anymore, that he is a man grown now, or close enough, and he wants to see what her final form is, what _he_ is. And Morgana's stupid Hysimnai has been settled for _half a year_ already, as a slender greenish-blue serpent that coils around her throat and arm like dæmon jewelry.

It doesn't happen until he's getting ready for bed in his chambers. Berengaria is a golden lioness, pacing the length of the chamber restlessly, when all at once she pauses, gathers herself up, and leaps into the air, changing her shape midleap.

Arthur stares at her. "No."

"Yes." She perches on the edge of the table, folding in her wings.

"No! I said _no!_ You're a _magic_ animal, you can't settle as this!" he rages, leaping from the bed and stalking towards her. Even as he says it, he knows that this is it. There is a _finality_ to this form, a cementing that says this is what she is and always will be from this day forward.

"You say this like I have any choice in the matter whatsoever," Berengaria remarks, tilting her head to fix him with one glittering black eye.

Arthur wants to be angry, really, he does. For a little while, he is. He throws things and uses words that he would never use in a lady's hearing. But then his anger seeps away like water through a sieve. He walks over to where Berengaria is still perched, reaching up to drag his fingers through her plumage; the feathers are thick and so soft they almost don't feel real, sliding through his fingers like silk, so warm. She is what he is. They are one and the same, and being angry over that is hardly worthwhile.

"You're very beautiful," he says as last. And she is. Her plumage is the colour of fire: not just red, but endless shades of yellows and oranges and golds and bronzes, tinged in blues and whites, all mingled and overlapping to create new colours. Her tail feathers stretch longer than his arm from shoulder to fingertip, almost brushing the floor where she perches, and on her head is a tall crest of fine golden feathers like spun metal that fans open and closed. Her claws are longer than his fingers, perfectly smooth and black as horn, just like her beak.

Berengaria leans forward and gently preens his hair with her beak.

"Father's going to kill us," he murmurs.

* * *

It's a close miss. Arthur can almost feel the breeze from the headman's axe passing his neck.

The morning after her settling, Arthur walks into the council chamber with his shoulders square and his chin lifted, Berengaria perched on his shoulder. Despite her size, she weighs hardly more than a hunting falcon, though her claws are sharp even through his jacket.

He sees Father's gaze fix on her, sees the tightening of his mouth, sees Mercuritia's small eyes narrow. Berengaria's talons squeeze his shoulder tightly.

It's Gaius who saves him. He informs Father that the phoenix is a good omen, the new rising from the ashes of the old. A symbol of the victory over magic, certainly, a sign that Camelot is surely entering a new golden age.

It works. Father's shoulders relax, and he offers Arthur one of his rare smiles, congratulating him on her settling.

Arthur takes his seat at the King's left, and Berengaria perches on the back of his chair. His heart doesn't stop pounding until the meeting ends and he flees the council chamber.

* * *

Merlin is...a mystery.

The boy is insolent and disrespectful and improper and never knows when to keep his bloody mouth shut and...and...Arthur _likes_ him. It makes no sense at all.

After the marketplace, when the big-eared idiot somehow manages to best him, _him,_ Berengaria only chuckles softly and lands on his shoulder. "I like him," she says, and he gapes up at his dæmon in utter betrayal. She only resettles her wings and says no more on the subject.

And then that moron manages to _save_ him from a knife from the Lady-Helen-who-is-not-Lady-Helen, and Father makes him Arthur's _manservant,_ and Berengaria, damn her, _laughs._

Merlin snickers too and casts little glances up at her, propriety be damned.

Just for that, he decides to break the boy in and sends him to clean his chambers, sharpen his sword, polish his boots, and see to his supper as well. As the boy sulks away, giving Arthur an insolent look as he goes, Berengaria chuckles again and nibbles on the shell of Arthur's ear. "This will be _lovely,"_ she laughs.

"Oh, shut up," he grumbles.

He doesn't see Merlin's dæmon that day. Or the next. Or any day after that. It's odd, but then again, what _isn't_ odd about Merlin? He notices the silly little neckerchief the boy always wears, how he constantly reaches up to fiddle with it, and he supposes that Merlin's dæmon must be something very small and shy, hiding underneath the ragged cloth. A bit of a contradiction, but then again, dæmons are a mystery to many, even their own humans.

* * *

There's a dragon.

There is a goddamned _dragon._

Sometimes, Arthur wishes his life was just somewhat less eventful. Just a little.

He hasn't slept in the past two days, and how can he, when there is a _dragon_ trying to bring down his home on his ears? Instead, he is on the battlements, trying to keep his men invigorated and hopeful, making sure they are well-supplied with arrows, lances, and spears. Berengaria soars overhead, and in the moonlight, her fiery plumage looks like blood. Their tether is stretched taut, but Arthur doesn't even care at this point. The prickle of discomfort keeps him on his toes, and he sees that men and dæmon alike are comforted by the sight of her and the sound of her song, warbling and clear and heart-swelling.

He rounds a corner and swears aloud.

Merlin is kneeling atop the battlement, his hands clasped over his ears, eyes screwed shut, lips moving silently as if in prayer.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" Arthur snaps, reaching down to grab him by the neck and heave him to his feet. "This is no place for you to be, Merlin, get out of here!"

"No!" Merlin cries, twisting with surprising strength to wrench his arm out of Arthur's grip. "I-I have to be up here!"

"Down!" Leon bellows, and they immediately drop down as the dragon makes another pass, flames roaring over their heads so close that Arthur can feel the heat even through his mail. Men and dæmon alike cry out in fear and pain.

"What the hell could you need to be here for?" he demands.

Merlin only stares at him, sheet-white and wide-eyed.

The dragon bellows again, a deep, rattling roar that vibrates in the very stones of the wall, and Arthur can see its dark shape wheeling around for another pass. But this time, there's an answering roar.

Berengaria cries out in dismay, and Arthur's heart drops. No. No, it cannot be.

He scrabbles to his feet and scans the sky, praying that he is wrong.

He is not.

There is another dragon. It is smaller, slimmer (a female, perhaps?) and it is all over white, as though it is carved from marble, glowing in the moonlight. He sees it soaring towards the castle like hell on wings, and for a moment, he's not sure if he wants to weep or scream.

Even as he shouts for his knights to prepare to defend from the west as well, the white dragon makes a sudden hairpin turn _away_ from the castle, wheeling about to face the gold one. It hovers in place, a feat Arthur hadn't known they were capable of, and when the attacker comes around for another pass, the white swoops upwards to meet it. Its mouth opens wide, and the fire that belches out isn't red, it's blue, blue as shattered sapphires in the moonlight. The golden dragon has to bank hard to avoid the flames, though they still lick along its back leg and tail, and it screeches in pain.

Again and again, whenever the golden dragon sweeps towards the castle, the white is there to parry it, breathing azure fire.

"Hold fire!" Arthur shouts. He can hardly believe his own eyes, but he's not going to question whatever gift this is. "Take aim at the gold one, but leave the white!" he orders. "It's helping us for now, don't make it change its mind!"

Leon nods and takes off down the battlement, relaying orders to the rest of the archers.

Arthur braces his hands against the stones, hot even through his gloves. "Two dragons. _Two _dragons. God help me, I thought they were all dead," he pants.

"So did I, but they're not both dragons," Berengaria says as she alights on one of the parapets beside him, her talons striking sparks when she lands.

Arthur blinks at her. "What?"

"The white one is not a dragon. She is a dæmon."

A _dæmon?_ No, that couldn't be right. Only sorcerers could have dragon dæmons, and what sorcerer would ever want to protect Camelot? What sorcerer would even be _in_ Camelot?

A low, anxious whimper makes him turn his head.

Merlin is standing up again, staring at the aerial battle; his hands are clutching the parapet so tight his knuckles were bone-white. His eyes had gone wide enough to show whites all around, and he's making an anxious whine in his throat. He's staring at the white dragon, terror in his eyes. But not fear _of_ the dragon. Fear _for _it. The same fear that Arthur might feel if Berengaria was in the air with enemy archers taking aim.

And he knows. He _knows._

Oh, God. God help him.

* * *

It takes all night for the dragon to finally give up its assault.

The white dragon-dæmon never slacks on its guard, though it has to be weary by now. The gold dragon breathes its own red fire at it time and time again, but every time, it twists aside, using its smaller size to advantage. Despite the bitter knot of warring emotion snarled up in his chest, Arthur appreciates the beauty of it, graceful as any dancer.

Their arrows, spears, and lances do very little against the dragon's scaly hide, the bony plates turning aside the points. But the dragon's wings are not nearly so impervious. The leathery hide drawn between the long, bony fingers is thin, and at one sweeping pass, a lance misses the dragon's side…and tears through the sail, leaving a wound.

"The wings!" Arthur shouts, moving up and down the battlements. His eyes are gritty and hot with exhaustion and smoke, every bit of him aches for his bed, but he will not give up this battle yet, not now, not when they finally seem to be gaining some kind of ground. Berengaria soars overhead, her crystalline song spilling out clear and high above the clamour. "Aim for its damn wings!"

Soon, the sails of both wings are in tatters, oozing black blood so hot it steams in the cool morning air, and for the first time in two days, Arthur feels a spark of hope that they might just overcome this.

And it does not escape his notice that throughout the night, Merlin never leaves the battlement. He never strays far from Arthur, and he never takes his eyes from the dragon dæmon. No matter how many times Arthur orders him away and even physically shoves him towards the stairs, the damn idiot always manages to make his way back up, sliding in amidst the commotion. The knot of conflict in Arthur's chest twists itself up tighter.

The dawn's first rays are cresting the horizon when it happens. It was bound to happen.

The white dragon dæmon _(Merlin's dæmon,_ his mind whispers at him) sweeps around to head off the gold, and when red fire bellows forth, this time, the white isn't out of the way fast enough. Flames sweep across its flank and haunches, and Arthur can smell burning flesh from where he stands. The white dragon howls, twisting away, but now its flying is no longer quite so even, falling low in the air.

His gaze snaps around to Merlin: the boy's collapsed to his knees, ubiquitous neckerchief shoved in his mouth to muffle a scream, and there are tears leaking from the corners of his tight-shut eyes.

Berengaria's battle-scream splits the morning air like the peal of a terrible bell. Arthur's head snaps back so fast his neck twinges, and he lets out a cry of his own as she streaks towards the dragons like a bloody comet. Their bond stretches taut, and he gasps at the unexpected _pain_ of it, unlike anything he's ever felt before in his life. He gives thought, if only briefly, to flinging himself clean off the battlement just to make it stop.

That doesn't stop her, though. With single-minded determination, Berengaria dives towards the gold dragon.

Directly towards its enormous yellow eyes.

Her talons sweep forward.

Black blood flies.

The golden dragon lets out a terrible roar of pain that seems to rattle the very walls of the castle itself. And at last, it gives up on its assault of Camelot. Wheeling away, the dragon flies away and doesn't turn back, limping away on ragged wings. Arthur watches until it is hardly more than a speck of golden sand in the dawning sky, and then it's gone.

Berengaria glides back down to the battlements; her breast is spattered with black blood, it drips thickly from her talons.

A ragged cheer goes up, and the knights around him chant his name, man and dæmon alike howling their victory.

Merlin looks like he's going to be sick.

* * *

"Where is the other one?" Uther demands.

"Father?" Arthur replies dumbly. His entire body feels strangely empty and light, from hunger or exhaustion or perhaps the shock of having the tether suddenly stretched past its limits, he has no clue.

"The second dragon. The white one. I heard it was injured. Where is it?"

His mouth opens, and a thousand thoughts go through his head—_it's a dæmon, not a dragon, it's Merlin's dæmon, Merlin has magic, Merlin's dæmon nearly killed herself to fight the real dragon, Merlin's a sorcerer with a dragon for a dæmon_—but none of them come out.

Leon, however, steps forward and points to the map that's spread across the table. "Here, sire. I saw it go down into the trees," he says; weary though he must be, his eyes are bright. Beside him, Ludmilla is almost trembling, though whether its from exhaustion or excitement, who could tell. "There's not a single report of it flying above the treeline, sire. I believe it's downed there, too injured to fly."

Uther nods with grim satisfaction. "Good. Excellent. Arthur, do you think that you can kill it?"

Killing the dæmon means killing Merlin. Killing a sorcerer. _Merlin._ Arthur tries to imagine Merlin not being there, but his mind cannot pull off such a feat. Berengaria squeezes her talons on his shoulder so tightly that he feels blood well up. "I believe so," he replies. The words taste of ash in his mouth.

"Good. I want it dead."

"I…I can take a dozen knights, Father. Give us the day to sleep, regain our strength, and we'll go after sundown. We can use the cover of night to sneak up on the beast, catch it off-guard." Berengaria's grip is so tight he's surprised she's not dented his armour yet.

Uther gives him a smile and claps a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Excellent. Who will you take with you?"

Arthur turns to look at the surviving knights and gives the offer, and a part of him hopes that none of them take him up on it.

But they do. Of course they do.

He staggers to his chambers somehow, and Merlin is there waiting for him. A part of him is truly impressed by the boy's strength because not only is Merlin _so far_ from his dæmon, his dæmon is _injured._ And yet he stands on his feet, looking pale and clammy but no more than any other person who has survived the past few days.

Merlin helps Arthur out of his armour as always, though his fingers tremble on the clasps and buckles. "What is to happen now, sire?" he asks.

"The King has ordered us to head into the forest and kill the white dragon come nightfall," Arthur replies. Perched on her stand beside his bed, Berengaria raises her crest in warning.

The boy's (sorcerer's) fingers hesitate for only a fraction of a second too long before they untangle the knots in Arthur's laces. "Will you lead them?"

Arthur sits down heavily on the edge of his bed, and though everything in him wants to fall back into the softness of the mattress and _sleep,_ he doesn't. "Don't be ridiculous, Merlin. I'm not going to kill your dæmon," he says.

Metal clangs to the floor as his armour spills out of Merlin's limp hands, and the boy gapes at him with wide eyes and mouth agape. Arthur wonders how in the hell Merlin managed to fool anybody for this long given his apparent lack of any ability to keep a blank face. "My…my…"

"I'm not an idiot, Merlin. You come up to the battlements despite me ordering _multiple times_ for you to leave, and not even a few moments later, there's another dragon here, _protecting_ us. Except it's not a dragon. It's a dæmon." He looks at Berengaria, who ruffles her wings at him. "And everyone knows that only sorcerers can have a dragon dæmon. As long as you are on the battlements, the dæmon is here. When it is injured, you look as though you're the one being cooked alive by dragon fire. And in all the years I have known you, Merlin, neither I nor Berengaria have ever lain eyes upon your dæmon."

"Arthur, I-I can explain, I—"

He holds up a hand, and Merlin closes his mouth with an audible _click._ "I haven't slept these past two days, Merlin. I need at least a few hours before tonight. When I wake up, you can tell me why you've lied to me about your magic. And we can come up with a plan to get your dæmon to safety without alerting the other knights."

"I…yes, sire," Merlin murmurs at last.

Finally, _finally,_ Arthur slides beneath his blankets and lays back into his bed, the softness a blessed relief. As his eyes slide shut, he manages to pry them back open again long enough to call Merlin's name.

"Yes, sire?"

"What's her name?"

Merlin's voice is barely more than a whisper. "Aithusa, sire." He slips out of the room and shuts the door between them.

On her perch beside his bed, Berengaria murmurs, "Aithusa."

The name follows Arthur into sleep.

* * *

He wakes up before sundown. When he goes to open his chamber doors, intent on summoning Merlin, he nearly steps on his manservant's neck; Merlin is asleep in the corridor in front of Arthur's door like a cur sleeping in the doorway of a tavern. Berengaria chuckles softly, and despite everything, he feels a surge of affection for the young man, exasperated though it is. He leans down and shakes one thin shoulder.

"Sire?" Merlin slurs, lifting his head groggily. When he sees Arthur, all the events of yesterday seem to come back upon him at once, his expression instantly closing off into something nervous, afraid. Afraid of _Arthur,_ and that makes the prince's stomach knot over on itself.

Quickly, he urges Merlin to his feet and into his chambers, pointing to a chair. "There's not much time. So explain," Arthur instructs, taking his usual seat. Berengaria flutters over to perch on the back of his chair, the familiar warmth of her helping to loosen the tangle in his heart.

Merlin does.

It doesn't take nearly as long as one would expect. Merlin had been born with magic. He hadn't chosen it, it had chosen him, and he could do no more to change that fact than he could change the colour of the sky or the turning of the sun. Aithusa had settled not long after he turned ten, just like any other boy. Their bond has always been stretched. Merlin doesn't know how or why it is, perhaps as a result of his inborn magic. He makes some allusion towards a prophecy and destiny and something about two sides of a coin, but here, Merlin seems to break a little. He slides out of his chair and falls to his knees. "I'm sorry I lied to you, Arthur. I've never wanted to, I swear. My magic is not evil. I use it only to serve you. _You,_ for I know you will be the greatest king the world has seen. I lied not just to protect myself, but because I never wanted you to have to choose between me and your father."

Arthur closes his eyes. Of course. Of course he hadn't. The boy is too self-sacrificing by half. He would never willingly do something that would put Arthur in a position like that. He rubs a hand over his face. Berengaria resettles her wings, silken pummels brushing the shell of his ear. "Show me," he says at last.

Merlin blinks. "I...what?"

"Your magic. Can you show me?" He wants to see it, _needs_ to see it with his own eyes, just to know that it is real.

The young man trembles a little, then cups one hand in front of him. He doesn't say a word—Arthur had always thought magic required verbal spells—but his eyes flare into gold as the surface of a lake catches the rays of the setting sun. In his palm blooms a ball of swirling blue-white light, lifting up to hover between them. It looks like Aithusa's fire caught in a glass ball somehow. And a memory stirs in Arthur's mind.

"It was you," he says. "The cavern, the mortaeus flowers."

Those damned ears of his turn pink. "Yes, sire."

Arthur nods. Berengaria surprises him by sweeping one wing forward to touch the light. It has no real substance, bursting like smoke that flows across her wings, and for a moment, her wing feathers appear purple.

Merlin drops his hand to his lap. "Wh...what do you want me to do, sire?" he asks, head bowed forward, as if already resigning himself to the headman's axe or the pyre.

For a moment, Arthur feels like he's twelve years old again, staring at Berengaria's settled form in dismay. He wants to be angry. He does. A part of him feels like he should be. But what's the point? Merlin is what he is. Yes, he'd lied to Arthur, but only to preserve his own life. To serve Arthur. To _protect_ him.

So instead of answering, he slides forward out of his chair, the floor cold under his knees, and he wraps his arms around Merlin's wiry-strong frame. He doesn't say anything, and to be honest, he's not sure that he even could at the moment. But it doesn't matter anyways. A shudder goes through Merlin, and slim arms clutch around him hard. The boy buries his head against Arthur's neck, a sob hitching in his throat, shivering. "Thank you," Merlin whispers against his neck.

After a moment, Arthur lowers his arms and rocks back on his heels, glancing at the window. "Sundown. We've got to go to the forest." Merlin's pales a little more, if that's even possible. "There's no way to avoid it. Can Aithusa escape?"

Merlin's eyes go somewhat unfocused, then he shakes his head. "No. She needs to be healed before she can take to air again, and I have to be with her to heal her."

Berengaria unfolds her wings and sweeps them once, stirring their hair with the breeze. "And Uther will order us to track her. So we must find a way to kill her. Or at least convince the knights and the king that we have."

"How can we do that?" Arthur wonders.

Merlin's head lifts, a smile at his lips. "I may have an idea."

* * *

Arthur does not like this idea. Not one bit.

Berengaria is too far overhead for him to hear her laughing, but he knows she is anyways. The knights are all riding towards the clearing where Aithusa had gone down, with Arthur leading. And Merlin. The young man is wearing mail that's too loose for him, a sword belted around his waist. It looks strange on him, but oddly fitting in a way, too.

_"Swefe,"_ Merlin murmurs beside him, and Arthur sees the flash of gold behind his lashes. And all the knights collapse. For a terrible second, Arthur thinks that his bloody manservant has killed them. But no, he can see their dæmons still, and their chests are still rising and falling. "They're only sleeping," Merlin confirms. "But they'll have a murderous headache when they come to, and we can tell them they were felled."

Huh. That's actually...not a bad plan. He sheathes his sword and turns to look at Aithusa full on for the first time.

Compared to the golden dragon, she's not so big, perhaps some three times the size of a warhorse. In the moonlight, her white hide seems to glisten, each scale a glittering piece of oval all lain together like a sheet of mail. The only place her hide isn't white is on her haunches where the other dragon's fire had caught her, and there, her scales are blackened and cracked; there is no blood, but her wounds seem to...smoke. No. Not smoke. It's Dust, escaping from her in delicate streamers of golden vapour.

"You're Arthur," she says, the tip of her tail twitching happily. "You're even more handsome in person."

Berengaria coughs, and Merlin hisses a chagrined, _"Aithusa,"_ and swats her shoulder, which she very likely doesn't feel at all.

"What? He _is,"_ Aithusa insists, then arches her long neck forward, golden eyes sweeping over him, and he feels very small and very human beneath her gaze. After several seconds of intense scrutiny, she stretches her long neck forward, head lowering.

Arthur hears Merlin say, "Aithusa, _don't_—_"_ but then she lowers her head and nuzzles Arthur's chest. It's all he can do not to collapse to his knees, and only by sheer force of will does he stay on his feet. Heat. That's what touching Aithusa feels like: summer lightning and wildfire licking through his veins, threatening to burst at any given second if he doesn't let go. But he doesn't want to let go. The burning is too good, too sweet, too beautiful, to simply _let go._ His skin tingles and prickles with anbaric pressure, all the fine hairs on his arms standing up. Touching Merlin's soul feels like holding a star in his hands.

Suddenly it doubles over on itself, pulling a gasp from his throat, and he sees that Berengaria is perched on Merlin's shoulder, her tail feathers spilling down his back like fire. She leans forward over his hands where they are pressed to Aithusa's burned scales, and Arthur closes his eyes, leaning up against Aithusa's powerful neck and running his hands over her glowing white hide.

He's not certain how long they sit there like this, touching and being touched, links in a burning, molten gold chain of energy and light and _peace._ But finally Merlin takes his hands away from Aithusa's haunches. Her scales are healed up, more milky and translucent than the rest of her. She pulls away from Arthur reluctantly and stands, testing her weight on her hind leg. "Oh, that is _much_ better," she exclaims happily, and her tail thumps on the grass, her wings fluttering with excitement.

Arthur smiles. Oh yes, Merlin's dæmon is _just_ like Merlin himself. He wonders how he ever could have thought it would be otherwise. He reaches up and scratches under her jaw, the motion coming to him as naturally as stroking Berengaria's breast feathers. "What now?" he asks.

"She'll have to hide," Merlin replies. "There's a cave system not far from here where she's been living for now." He glances sideways at Arthur, looking fearful as if Berengaria isn't perched on his shoulder. "Does...does she have to stay there?"

"For now, yes." Arthur sighs and leans his brow against Aithusa's firm, warm scales. "I'm sorry, Merlin. But she will have to stay hidden for now. When I am king...it will be different," he vows.

Because Father is wrong. Magic is not evil. It is no more evil than his sword is. It's only a tool. It's the person wielding the magic that makes it good or evil. Merlin is proof of that. Who else would willingly use their own dæmon as a shield to protect a kingdom that would see him executed for daring to even exist at all? Aithusa is proof of it. He lays his hand against her scales and feels nothing but an outpouring of love and warmth from her. He remembers that light in the cavern, like blue fire caught in a bubble, and feels nothing but safe knowing that Merlin is at his side with magic to protect him and the future that is theirs to build.

"I'll need your help," Arthur says, and Merlin's head lifts at that. He's almost surprised the boy's ears don't prick up, too. "I haven't the slightest idea where to begin lifting the ban, or how to properly govern it." He tilts his head up to look at Aithusa's glowing golden eyes, so high above his. "How does Court Sorcerer sound?"

Merlin makes a sound like a chicken that's had it's neck improperly wrung.

"I'm going to take that as a yes." He pats Aithusa's shoulder. "You need to go. We need to rouse the knights soon. But soon, I'll have you sleeping in the courtyard and enjoying roasted venison."

Aithusa lowers her head and _licks_ him. Her tongue is as long as his arm and almost as thick, purplish-black, licking him in a long, wet stripe that smudges his armour and sticks in his hair. "You...are...disgusting," he says flatly, and she laughs, wriggling everywhere in delight. Merlin snorts into his hand. "Just go, would you? We'll come and see you soon."

She turns and drags her claws into the earth a few times, clawing up great clods of soil and grass, then blows a few little bursts of flame onto the grass, quickly stamping the flames out once there's a suitable black mark. Once the clearing has been made to resemble a half-decent battlefield, she opens vast white wings and beats once, twice, and then is in the air, a white beacon gliding away into the darkness.

"Can you wake them?" Arthur asks, jerking his chin at the still-sleeping knights as he tries to smooth his hair back down.

Merlin is still giggling a little. "Yes. Here, give me your sword," he says, and Arthur hands it over. Merlin takes out a stoppered clay jar, opens it, and pours the contents over the blade. It's dragon blood, real dragon blood, black and congealed thick as tar. Once there's a decent amount of it splattered on the blade and the grass, he murmurs, _"Hathian."_ The blood begins to bubble and hiss, scalding hot in a matter of seconds.

"Clever," Berengaria remarks, finally leaving his shoulder to take up her usual perch on Arthur's.

Handing the sword back to Arthur, Merlin goes to kneel beside Leon and murmurs another spell, touching the knight. As Leon stirs and groans, the young man winks at Arthur and goes to the other knights, rousing each one from their enchanted sleep.

"What's...what's happened?" Leon asks thickly, one hand cradling his head as Ludmilla whimpers, her ears pinned back.

"Arthur dealt it a mortal blow!" Merlin cries, sounding just as gleeful as he should. But it isn't Aithusa's demise that has him so joyful. It is the acceptance of himself and his magic, the knowledge that there is a future for him in Camelot. "It has fled, crawled off to die!"

The knights, looking ragged and weary as they are, all begin to cheer.

Arthur holds up his sword, stained with stolen dragon's blood, and laughs. Berengaria soars over their heads and warbles a cry of victory.

* * *

It takes several more years before Arthur can keep his vow.

When he knights Gwaine, Lancelot, Percival, and Elyan at the Round Table, he doesn't stop there.

Merlin's eyes are full of tears when he kneels in front of Arthur, and the flat of the blade touches his shoulders. "Sir Merlin, Court Sorcerer of Camelot," he declares, loud and firm for all to hear.

Gaius nearly faints dead away from the shock. So does Gwen. Lancelot only smiles a little. Gwaine laughs. Elyan and Percival both look in turns confused and impressed.

And as if there is any room for doubt, Berengaria leans forward and slides her beak through Merlin's black curls.

"Call Aithusa," Arthur says, sheathing his sword once more. "We've got a kingdom to take back."

* * *

In the years to come, people speak with reverence of the white dragon who bore the king and the sorcerer into the heart of Camelot to destroy the undead army.

When Arthur presents Merlin to the people as Court Sorcerer, announces the ban repealed, and Aithusa as his dæmon, the cheer that goes up rattles the very windows. Lifting her head, Aithusa spouts a jet of blue flame into the air, and Berengaria flies directly through the flames, gilding her feathers with glittering streamers of fire that shimmer in rainbowed hues.

Little by little, magic trickles back into the kingdom.

It's slow going. People are afraid, and rightfully so. But change it does. Camelot's golden age dawns. A new kingdom rises from the ruins of the old.

The sight of a white dragon flying around the citadel becomes commonplace. As does the sight of Merlin walking at Arthur's side with a Sidhe staff in hand, or with Berengaria perching on his shoulder as if she belongs there.

Five years into their new world, Arthur finally gets around to summoning Merlin to his chambers to discuss an interesting bit of knowledge he's found in a long-hidden book on magical dæmons. Those who can touch each other's dæmons with such ease are rare. And it is said that the two individuals can do so because they are soulmates, and their dæmons are one and the same, merely different parts of the same whole.

Two sides of the same coin.

Merlin, for his part, turns quite red and stammers like he's still just the foolish boy that bested Arthur in the marketplace by (cheating) using magic.

Taking mercy on him, Arthur shuts him up with a kiss. And another. And then, for a while, there is no talking at all, except in the language of the body, of lips and tongues and hands, of the leap of heated blood in the veins, of quickening breath, of the salt-slickness of desire. When it is over, king and sorcerer sleep tangled together in the royal bed, limbs entwined and breathing in unison.

Outside, the dragon and the phoenix soar through Camelot's skies.

* * *

**Arthur—Berengaria, phoenix**  
**Merlin—Aithusa, white dragon**  
**Uther—Mercuritia, wild boar**  
**Morgana—Hysimnai, boomslang**  
**Leon—Ludmilla, deerhound**  
**Gaius—Lorelei, bearded lizard**  
**Guinevere—Hyperion, fire salamander**  
**Lancelot—Marias, white ermine**  
**Percival—Grainne, black bear**  
**Gwaine—Serenei, magpie**


End file.
